


It Gets Worse

by sinenomine



Series: Worse.Better.Best [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ass-to-mouth, Coerced Voyeurism, Coerced Voyeurism on the Part of a Relative, Compensated Rape, Extreme Watersports, Gang Rape, Human Urinal/Public Use, Humiliation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multiple-Ejaculatory Orgasms in a Male, Non-Consensual Restraint, Object Insertion, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unconsummated Relationship, Virgin Sherlock, degredation, the hurt part of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinenomine/pseuds/sinenomine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for the following prompt over at the kink meme:</p>
<p>"In the middle of a case, Sherlock yells some non sequitur and runs off. Like he always does. So, John and Lestrade shrug at each other and deal with some paper-work stuff at the Yard and wait for him to deign to get back in contact with them. A few hours later, John gets a video message from Sherlock and, assuming it's some important evidence, gathers everyone around to watch it. Only, while Sherlock's found the group of men they were looking for, they also found him, and the videos they send (and keep sending, and keep sending) are of the long and drawn out gang-bang Sherlock is now in the middle of."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Gets Worse

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a long time ago for [a very detailed prompt over on the Sherlock kink meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=29580775#t29580775). I figured that, two seasons after I’d written it, it was probably time for me to post it over here.
> 
> I tried to make this as horrific as I could, so while I’m certain that there are people here way more hardcore than I am, please do read the warnings/tags.

He knows, logically, that virginity is a ridiculous concept. And he thinks, rationally, that his behaviour toward John is not entirely fair. But he can’t help but thrill at the feeling he gets when he kisses and rubs against John until they’re both hard, then backs off and tells John not to touch him. He can’t help but love the look of need on John’s face and the breathy moan of thwarted libido. He loves the fact that John does back off, and is willing to wait for some unspecified length of time for something that he has no guarantee will be worth waiting for. Sherlock loves that John is putting Sherlock’s comfort before his own. He loves that every time John doesn’t act, that’s an act of adoration. He loves the anticipation of what will happen, and he loves the way his desire to actually have sex is steadily overcoming those other loves. 

Part of the reason he’s held out so long – so long after finally meeting someone worthy of his company and developing an attraction, so long after finding that his affection was not unrequited – is that sex is one of the few subjects on which his research and experiments have only been able to take him so far. He is not uneducated, but his education has led him to believe that he is unprepared. 

He doesn’t want to get this wrong. It is imperative that everything go right. If it doesn’t then it’s more than likely he’ll never get another chance. John is only the second person he’s ever been attracted to, and it is entirely possible that there will never be a third. 

The first had been a disaster. He had confessed his attraction, and Victor had smiled kindly and told him that while he quite enjoyed Sherlock’s company he himself was only attracted to women and could they remain friends? He had not been convinced by Sherlock’s arguments that he did, in fact, find men attractive, and had completely ignored all the evidence presented that Sherlock would, in fact, be most suitable for a relationship. Eventually he’d come to the conclusion that even a friendship with Sherlock may have been a bit more than he was capable of maintaining. 

This had inspired in Sherlock a degree of uncharacteristic caution in his romantic pursuit of John. He had revealed the worst parts of his personality before attraction had dawned, and he can only be glad of that now. But he is fully aware that being overwhelmed by the sensations and becoming ill during coitus, or having his body betray him by orgasming within the first forty seconds, could cause John to reconsider his physical attraction. He is determined to take no action until he is certain he can perform admirably. 

And so, when he is kissing John – and he knows he’s skilled at that; observation had paid off with a lack of fumbling and a pleasingly surprised moan into his mouth the first time – having backed him against the fridge and pushed his thigh between John’s legs, he pulls away soon after his own hips start bucking forward. 

“I can’t,” he says, widening his eyes and affecting innocence.

He doesn’t have to say anything more, it’s become Pavlovian. 

John winces, and bangs his head back against the fridge door. He lets out that beautiful moan of frustration and Sherlock has to take care to avoid letting on that it pushes him to the edge of his own completion like some teenaged boy. 

John’s fists clench at his sides, and when he opens his eyes again, his gaze flits quickly between Sherlock and the table. His thought process is clear.

“Soon,” Sherlock leans forward again, his voice as deep as it has ever gone, “very soon, we’ll clear off the table, and I’ll let you ride me on it.”

He files the look he gets for that promise away and turns to sweep out of the kitchen. He knows John can take care of himself, and his words have ensured that his imagination will not be at a loss.

* * *

He takes a shower. He records the state of the fungi he has growing in his closet for an experiment. Eventually he ventures back out into the living room, ostensibly to retrieve his laptop. 

John is sitting on the couch, his own laptop in front of him. It hasn't been running long; John had obviously masturbated without the use of pornography. Sherlock’s laptop is where he'd left it, buried under the cushions at the end of the couch.

“I’m beginning to wonder," John says without looking up, “if you don't get off by working me up and leaving me dry."

Sherlock frowns, but refrains from commenting, digging his laptop out instead. Upon extrication he flops down where it had been, then pulls the table closer to his end to rest the laptop on it. The couch is his. It's his space – perhaps not in technicality, but in spirit – and if John wants to start an argument on it, then he is going to find himself out of his depth. John turns to stare at him as he switches the laptop on. He could easily ignore him, and he wants to, but at the same time, he doesn't.

"I'm not leading you on," he says to his computer screen.

“I know, I wasn’t saying that. I just-" John closes his laptop. "It's getting very hard when I'm around you."

Sherlock jostles his screen slightly so he can see the reflection of John's expression as he realises what he's just said. He makes his own silence as pointed as possible.

“Look,” John starts, speaking quickly, “it’s wonderful to be the first person you're doing this with. I want you to be happy, and I want you to be comfortable, and I want you to enjoy everything.” The lines are obviously practiced, and probably stolen from daytime television. “I want you, and I am willing to wait for you, but I also want some sort of timeline on how long that wait is going to be, and what you expect from me. Just, doing what just happened, that’s driving me mad.”

Sherlock twists his whole body to face John, then brings his knees up. “I said soon. You’d given me the impression that was enough.”

“It was. It is. But you’ve been saying ‘soon’ for a long time.” 

And this is it; this is bad. He’d lost Victor because he’d been too forceful, and he’s losing John because he’s become too timid. He won’t get another chance, and he doesn’t want one. He wants John, and he’s ruining everything because he’s clearly not meant for relationships with other people that are functional. 

“You were rubbing against me,” John is saying. “You were enjoying yourself, and then you suddenly jumped back and I don’t know why you keep doing this. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I can’t stop until you tell me whatever it is.”

He can’t explain because John won’t understand, and he can’t give John what he wants, not just yet, not like this.

John is staring at him, wide-eyed and confused, hurt and blaming himself. If Sherlock just keeps staring back at him, he’s going to get frustrated. He’ll say he needs some air and he’ll go down to the pub. He’ll drink until he forgets about Sherlock, and if Sherlock doesn’t come and collect him someone just as drunk and angry will, and he’ll go home with them. In the morning he’ll be consumed with guilt and tell himself that he’s not good enough, and tell Sherlock that they should stay friends, and they won’t. 

“Is it embarrassing? I don’t care if it is, but you have to tell me. If I don’t know what I’m doing wrong I can’t stop it.”

Sherlock quickly forces one of his feet onto John’s lap. If he really wants to get up it won’t keep him seated, but the message behind the action is what matters. 

“It’s not anything you’re doing.” Sherlock’s frustration cuts clear through his tone. “I thought I’d made that obvious. I,” Sherlock has always found it easier to explain lies, “am not as experienced as you are, and I can only imagine I have a lot to live up to.”

“There is nothing wrong with experience,” John starts with a frown.

“No, no.” He punctuates his words by pressing down with his foot. “This is why I don’t try to explain. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with having it.”

“You’re saying you’re nervous because it’s practice you don’t have.”

Sherlock smiles, and lets John draw the conclusion he likes best.

“My first time,” John tells him, “was not the best, but it wasn’t the worst either. We had fun.”

Sherlock does not respond.

“What I mean,” he continues, running a hand along the top of Sherlock’s foot, “is that running away from people who want to have sex with you isn’t all that conductive to gaining experience.”

“I had noticed that,” Sherlock concedes. “I will consider changing my approach.”

John smiles at him.

Crisis averted, he lifts his foot and curls up at the end of the couch, laptop on his knees. According to multiple websites, the fungi in his closet are growing faster than they should. This shouldn’t invalidate any results, but he wants to know why. It is entirely possible that all of the websites have taken their information from the same, wrong, source. His experiment could be replicated elsewhere. The leftmost bottom kitchen cupboard would have the right conditions, and it’s not being used for anything important.

He looks up when his mobile rings.

“Get that for me.”

“No.”

“Could be important. People dying.”

John stands and walks the three steps to where Sherlock has left his phone. 

“I’m not sure I should be encouraging your laziness,” he says, holding it just far away enough that Sherlock has to reach for it.

The text, from Detective Inspector Lestrade, is an address and the words “2 murdered”

“I keep you fit.” Sherlock jumps up. “Now get your coat, we’ve got a case.”

* * *

The cab ride passes in silence. He pesters the inspector, but Lestrade won’t tell him much more over texts. He needs the case for distraction, but without enough information his mind is still free to wander to unimportant subjects. He keeps drifting back to his conversation with John. The man will never appreciate how much effort it’s taking not to glare across the cab at him. He should feel entitled to glare; John’s first assumption for why he’s not shoving his hands down his pants without reservation is that he’s crippled by anxiety over inexperience. He’s entitled to be insulted by that. It’s a stupid reason. He may have led John to it, but proper analysis of the evidence would have shown alternate explanations.

He really does despair that no one observes or analyses. People choose the easiest, most appealing explanation, and they’ll argue for it even if they’re being ridiculous. It is absurd that he wants someone so ridiculous in his life, and even more absurd that he’s wanted in John’s. 

He is being ridiculous himself, even though it’s mostly John’s fault for inspiring this absurdity. Of course, John won’t leave if leave if sex isn’t perfect. He has more than enough evidence that John would only see any problems as a reason to have more and do better. He has been stupid, and he is being stupid, and he hates himself for it. He hates John for making him stupid, and he hates Lestrade for not giving him enough information to lift his mind away from this stupidity.

When the cab rolls to a stop, he darts out, leaving John to pay. He doesn’t acknowledge Donovan’s “Hallo freak,” as he slips onto the crime scene.

* * *

At first glance, the scene is infuriatingly simple. A premeditated double murder made to look like a break-in gone wrong. Lestrade had noticed that – due to not being completely incompetent – but had called him in because – as he’d refused to explain until face-to-face with Sherlock – they’d found evidence linking this to a previous murder, and the development of a brand new extortion ring.

“Unless you think we’re wrong about who did it, in which case, have at it, but if you could help us find these people before the problem gets worse...”

He is rather unkindly amused at how, by the time John’s caught up and put on the hideous blue decontamination suit, he’s found enough evidence to supply him with the identity of the killer – a cheap hit-man.

“I hate to think of the state your investigations would be in without me,” he says to Lestrade, then turns to John. “I’m off, and if I have any chance of finding anything before the trail turns cold I can neither drag you along in that nor wait for you to get out of it.”

“Do not,” John starts, ripping off the gloves that he’s just finished putting on, “go running off after a murderer without me.”

“Promise I won’t,” Sherlock says, twirling to the door. “Only after the people who hired him.”

At John’s grunt of distress and the sound of a renewed effort to strip, he calls back, “If anything terribly interesting happens, you’ll get a call.”

* * *

“At least,” says Lestrade as they stand in the wake of Sherlock’s exit, “he’s telling you he’s running off now.”

“It’s a definite improvement.” John sighs. “Maybe one day he’ll even tell me where. Do you need me here, or...”

“Or have you followed him all the way out here for nothing?” Lestrade grins. “We can find something for you to do. Nothing too official, mind you.”

* * *

Sherlock leaves John and the crime scene in a way that he tells himself is in no way an inversion of the way John waits for him.

He does not technically engage the hit-man, though he does break in to his empty house. He finds embarrassingly poorly hidden evidence leading to several small establishments where the assassin had met with the ring’s leader. He follows the trail to a dingy little pub, deciding that he’ll only inform John and Lestrade if he finds something concrete.

* * *

The beer is cheaper than it is good, but it is very, very cheap. It has a fair alcohol content, and that’s the important thing.

The company is better. The venture is small, thirteen men is small compared to what he has plans for, but it is doing well. The important thing is that people are learning not to mess with them. It will get easier from now on. If anyone says they won’t pay, he’ll just name-drop the corpses and they’ll know he’s serious. 

Of course, there’s a little bit of discord right now. The payments haven’t been all that big, and he’s taken the initiative to hire someone to dispose of uncooperative marks twice now. The boys aren’t upset exactly, but three people are dead and there’s not as much money as they thought there would be. Not as much as expected divided amongst thirteen can be a bit disappointing.

It’s fun though. It’s fun slumming like this, drinking shit beer at this shit pub. It’s not as though most of them need the money anyway. This is a bonding experience. They need to raise group morale. Everyone needs to understand that they’re in this together, after all.

Truth be told, it’s working better than Paul had expected. The men are talking amongst themselves, joking, and the positive group spirit has infected even the ones with a tendency to get morose after a pint. It’s been a good night.

It’s the second night, ever, that he’s had someone killed. Two people this time. He’s not going to be caught or punished for it. That’s the magic of being part of a group like this. If anything does go awry, though it won’t, there’ll be someone else to take the fall.

Dave – who would, as far as Paul is concerned, be the perfect fall-man – nudges him and gestures vaguely toward the bar.

“That man who just came in, I’ve seen him. He’s with the Yard Paul. I’ve seen him.”

Dave, Paul decides, is the twitchiest of twitchy bastards.

The man who just walked in is clearly not the sort who needs to work for the police. Those are not the shoes that anyone working streets with the police could afford. The coat is entirely too nice; all his clothes are.

“That is not an undercover cop,” Paul says. “I don’t know what he’s doing in a dodgy hole like this, but there’s no reason to worry.”

“He is a god-damned detective, and I swear to god Paul, if you have done something to lead him back to us I will –”

Paul rolls his eyes and leans over to Jake at his right. “That bloke who just walked in, he look lost to you? How much do you want to bet he’s carrying? Even if it’s all plastic, bet we could get something nice for the coat.”

Jake smirks. “You want to mug somebody? Really?”

“Come on,” Paul wheedles. “It’ll be fun. Look at him. Let’s all grab him, take him out back, and engage in some group-cohesion-strengthening activities.”

The group has been talking all night about crime, and camaraderie, and living dangerously. They’re all a bit drunk. So Jake’s snicker and, “Well, if it’s to strengthen group cohesion, I really can’t object,” tells Paul that the message will be passed down the table. By the time he makes his move, he’ll have everyone behind him.

The man who’d been speaking to the barman twirls – fucking twirls – away as the barman is still replying to him. Paul stands and follows him out, the rest of the gang trailing behind. 

“Oi,” he calls, catching up on the pavement as the man types something into his phone. “You miss your date?”

He snatches the phone away, and garbles the message before it can be sent.

“Not quite,” the man responds, grabbing the phone back before Paul can move. 

The minute it’s back in his hand, the man tries to dash off. Paul grabs him by the cuff of his coat and pulls, causing the man to stumble. Jake catches up and grabs the man before he can fall, while Rick comes up behind and takes the phone again. 

The man twists out of Jake’s grip, but Paul kicks the long legs out from under him. He grunts and struggles as they drag him into the alley behind the pub, but at some point he seems to realise the odds are thirteen to one because he goes limp. 

Rick searches through the phone while Jake rubs his wrists.

“That cunt is fucking strong,” he warns.

Dave is swearing and unwinding the scarf from around the man’s neck to wrap it around his wrists.

Paul looks at how it’s taking two men to force the man to kneel. Teamwork is the most beautiful thing. 

“Holy Christ!” Rick’s looking in horror at the man’s mobile. “Listen to this: 'There will be human liver in the fridge. Consider yourself warned. Do not touch it.'” Most of the group freeze and stare at him. “Listen to the fucking response: 'For how long?'”

“That’s fucked up,” says George.

“It gets worse. He’s clearly talking about murder. Listen: 'How long should a healthy 25yo male survive in a meat locker if stabbed in the thigh? Femoral left intact.' and the next one, to the same fucking contact, John, is just 'Get patches on your way home'” He flips though more messages. 

“Oh, and John actually answers him. Seriously. They are serial killers. My god. We are mugging a gay serial killer. This was a bad idea.”

“He’s not a fucking serial killer.” Dave grabs the phone. “He fucking... oh god damn Rick, four of the past five messages have fucking D.I. after ‘sent to’. Are you really so stupid that you can’t...” 

Dave looks at Paul, eyes wide. “He’s investigating us. You hired a god-damned clumsy hit-man, and now there is literally a detective at our heels.”

After the initial second of panic, Paul smiles.

“Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”

“What the fuck, what the fuck, no, it’s not!” Dave cries as Rick retakes the phone.

If someone has to take a fall, Paul decides, it will definitely be Dave.

“It will, because I know how to get the good detective to drop it. You’re going to help me, all of you. We’re going to do this as a group, because it is a group problem with a group solution. It’s going to be fun.” He reaches to undo his belt buckle. “When we’re done with this little ponce, he won’t even want to think about us. They’ll take him off any case we’re involved in.”

Paul slides his belt all the way off before whipping it through the air, right next to the detective’s face. “We’re going to be taken seriously. And come on.” Paul smiles at Rick while undoing the first button of his trousers. “You did say ‘gay serial killer’ right? He might even like it.” He nudges the detective’s knee with his foot. “What would your boyfriend say then?”

“Any further attempts to,” the man on his knees fills his tone with derision, “‘scare me off’ will only worsen your situation. I assure you that you will be caught. In the last fifteen seconds alone you’ve revealed-” 

The detective is cut off when Paul steps out of his trousers and slaps him across the face with his flaccid penis.

* * *

Sherlock stares at him while his brain, so recently running faster than required, almost faster than he could bear, shuts down in silence, just for a moment.

His mouth gapes open.

He had considered the idea that something like this was going to happen. A beating, at least, was expected. With this many men, being robbed was certain. Sexual assault had seemed less concrete, even as the man had started removing his trousers. Of thirteen people, at least one should object to this, even if only on homophobic grounds. Then again, in a group of thirteen people, with inhibitions already lowered by alcohol, the influences of peer pressure and distribution of personal responsibility could be stronger.

Sherlock’s mind betrays him, and he cannot form any objection before the cock is shoved past his lips.

“If you bite,” says the man, “I’ll break your jaw. Then I’ll stick it back in, harder.”

Sherlock tries to pull back, but one of the men holding him down by the shoulders moves a hand to the back of his head and pushes forward. 

Sherlock gags as it hits the back of his throat. The smell and taste of sweat and unfamiliar flesh is hateful. 

He can feel it hardening inside him, which only makes him gag more and forces his tongue to roll against it. He must make some sort of movement or recognisable sound, because as the bile rolls up his throat the man steps back and the hands on his shoulders press him forward to vomit on the ground.

He hasn’t eaten. The bile is yellow acid that burns in his throat and on his tongue.

He is given only the chance to spit, once, before he’s forced back up.

“I’m insulted,” says the man. “Have you ever barfed on your boyfriend like that?”

“Don’t,” says Sherlock, simply.

“Or did, what’s his name –”

“John,” a man supplies, still flipping though Sherlock’s phone.

“Did John tell you to do that if anyone else touched you?”

The man drags his fingers though Sherlock’s hair. “I bet he did. He’s trained you to do a lot of things, hasn’t he?”

“Leave him out of this. Mention him again and I’ll tell everyone here exactly what you’ve done to your own –”

He’s cut off by the cock shoved roughly back into his mouth.

“Come on then, suck on it!”

When Sherlock doesn’t respond the man thrusts roughly into the back of his throat, then out and in again.

“You can only make this worse for yourself. If this hole isn’t good enough, I’ll take the other.”

Sherlock curls his lips over his teeth. He sucks.

This is not what he wanted, Sherlock thinks as the man grabs his hair and forces his head into movement. He wanted John, and he could have had John, but he’d kept running off. 

Now here he is, on his knees in an alley, with the stench of vomit, and stale piss, and the contents of a full, rotting skip. There’s a man who’s not even halfway competent at crime – or this – forcing him to perform something that likely barely even qualifies as fellatio. There are thirteen of them. They will likely all want a turn. 

If he’s lucky, he’ll be left in the alley. His mobile, he has no doubt, will be stolen, perhaps with some of his clothes. He’ll have to ask for help, probably from the same barman he’d run off from mid-sentence, and he’ll have to be able do so while appearing to have only been mugged. 

It is unnecessary, he decides, as the man’s thrusts grow faster, for anyone to know about this. He would be taken off the case, and while Scotland Yard could hunt them down, everything will be faster if he’s personally involved. He doesn’t want these men to have to wait to be caught.

He’s the first person, he can tell, for them to do this to as a group. Several of the men, from what he can observe around his assailant, will decide in the morning that this whole amateur crime ring thing has gone too far. After this, he is not going to stand by and let the gang dissolve. Even for a simple mugging and beating, he should be able to – 

Bitter come hits the back of his throat, and his immediate reflex of gagging only spreads it over his tongue. He spits as the man pulls out, and another, already hard, rushes forward to take his place. 

“Lick me,” the man demands, and Sherlock feels the pressure against his shoulders and the scarf around his wrists. 

He sticks his tongue out and inexpertly runs it against the head of the man’s erection.

“Come on slut, you can do better than that. We know you have a boyfriend.”

“Your jealousy,” Sherlock spits, because he _does not_ want these men mentioning John, “does you no favours.”

“What?”

“You lack a boyfriend. That you want one is obvious. It’s why your girlfriend is about to leave you. That you’re going to have trouble finding one is also obvious. That’s because –”

For the second time in his life, he’s hit in the face with a penis. The experience has become old surprisingly quickly. 

“You know what?” says another man, one who hasn’t spoken until now. “We should strip him. See if he’s so cocky then.”

He feels one of the men holding him down start to move; a hand reaches out to unbutton his coat.

He doesn’t struggle. If they want to take his coat off, they’ll have to untie his hands. It is also, partially, trapped under his knees. He’ll be untied and almost standing. He may be unlikely to succeed, but this will present him with an opportunity to escape. He decides to take it. 

Most of the men around him are already hard; if he can get past them, he can outrun them.

The buttons to his coat are completely undone and it is slid off his shoulders. A third man assisting the two holding him down tries to pull it off of him. Sherlock grunts, and one of the men explains to the third that they’ll have to untie him.

He is careful not to flex his wrists as the scarf is pulled away. They let him rise slightly to pull the fabric out from under his legs, and at that he pushes up and forward with all his strength, leaving three pairs of hands with an empty coat.

He pushes one man down, and dodges another as he makes his bid for freedom. He almost succeeds, but to avoid one pair of grabbing hands he has to press himself against the brick wall. The loss of momentum is momentary, but the force with which another assailant slams into him leaves him reeling.

Within a second, everyone whom he has not knocked down is upon him. He can feel multiple, wide hands on every limb as they drag him down. 

Someone starts to rip his shirt open, but another pair of hands grabs at them and someone else says, “Wait. Do it slowly.”

The second pair of hands pulls the first away, then returns and focusses on undoing each button carefully, almost lovingly.

His discomfort at this must be obvious; he can see interest in the faces surrounding him.

“Stop, just stop. I’ll go. I won’t come after you.”

It’s a lie, but there’s no way they can know that.

“Assaulting an officer while he’s on duty carries a higher penalty, but if you let me go now I won’t report it. I’ll leave you alone.”

The hands don’t stop.

“You’re not an officer,” the man who has his phone says. “So, even if that were true, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Anyone working with the police. Anyone who –” they’ve almost bared his chest now, are starting to roll the shirt off his shoulders. Someone sticks their fingers, filthy, in his mouth. 

“Shh, it’s too late,” they hush him, and someone breathes, hot and rank with cheap alcohol as they lean over him and run a hand down to his trousers. 

“You will regret this. Don’t!” The last vestiges of calm leave his tone, but the message is garbled. 

They’re lifting him, and turning him over on to his hands and knees. His shirt is gone, and with a few harsh tugs, he is completely nude, knees scraping on the pavement.

This is bad. This is even further than he’d expected it to go. He clamps his thighs together and attempts to bring his feet up, but his legs are held down.

“I like him better this way.” Someone traces their hand over his stomach.

The fingers are pulled out of his mouth by someone else, and a new cock is shoved in. He can’t help but categorise the difference in body odor, angle, the brush of hair when the man pushes in too far too quickly and leaves him retching, thrust backward with as much force as self-preservation.

He throws himself forward again almost as quickly, moving as far as possible from the heat of yet another man’s erection pressing against his thigh.

The intensity of his movement causes the man in his mouth to fall back and out of him. 

“Wild one!” someone laughs, and there’s a stinging slap to his arse.

He coughs, but there’s no more bile.

The first man starts speaking again. “Does John know how much of a slag you are?”

Sherlock doesn’t open his mouth to reply. Instead, it is forced open for him. The man enters him again, not thrusting quite as hard this time, but still hitting the back of his throat.

“Swallowed me whole and knocked me down for more!” The man grabs the back of Sherlock’s neck and keeps his head steady as he pumps in and out of Sherlock’s wide, limp mouth. “Thought you only saw that in porn.”

“What would John say if he knew you were gagging on a stranger?”

The wetness of his eyes, Sherlock is sure, is due mostly to the physiological arousal caused by the abuse of his throat.

“We can always ask him. We do have his number.”

The man in his mouth lets out a groan, pulls out, and finishes himself off, spraying across Sherlock’s face.

Fingers are pushed back into his mouth. They’re not the ones from before. They grab at his tongue and run up along the roof of his mouth. They pull out, and he barely has the time to inhale before he lets it out with a shriek as the slicked fingers are run across his anus.

“Do _not_ do that!”

The man touching him doesn’t wait for more protest. He forces his fingers in.

Sherlock gasps and clenches.

“Oh yes,” the man behind him moans. “He feels amazing. Prize-winning slut.”

This time, the slap is so hard that if he weren’t being so firmly held in place, he’d be knocked over.

The man pulls his fingers out, grabs Sherlock’s hips with both hands, and aligns himself to enter.

Sherlock clenches as hard as he can. This is effective for several heartbeats, and then the man pulls Sherlock’s hips back while driving his own forward, forcing his way inside.

The pain is indescribable, and some of it is not physical.

Sherlock’s shriek is muffled by a hand that will soon be replaced with yet another cock.

Sherlock has never taken more than two of his own fingers, and the man inside him feels absurdly large. He tries to relax, to ease the tension and hopefully the pain, but before he can come anywhere close to dealing with the sensation, the man starts to move inside him.

The movement is slight at first. The tightness, the dryness, is restricting, but the man behind him speeds up, and his mouth is refilled, and there is entirely too much overstimulation for him to notice when someone moves over so that the man with his phone can get a good angle to start recording.

* * *

John is not worried, exactly. He’s frustrated, but that’s become a fairly consistent theme in his life. He’s at the station, not because, as Sergeant Donovan seems convinced, he’s pathetic and will trail after anyone who’ll let him tag along, but because Lestrade offered him a ride, and it’s cheaper to get home from the station than it would have been from the crime scene.

He had been of some use there after all. Perhaps not as much as he would have if Sherlock hadn’t run off without him, but it wasn’t as though leaving the flat had been a complete act of futility.

He is, in fact, quite pleased that he’s at the station when he gets the call. Sherlock has sent him a video message, rather than a text, and that must mean something very interesting has happened.

He says as much to Lestrade as he calls him over before pressing play. 

He is entirely correct.

* * *

The video is short. The only reason John doesn’t drop the phone is that he is quickly frozen with shock.

On the screen, Sherlock is pale, and naked, and held down by people stupid enough to show their faces.

He’s moving, rhythmically, pushed back and forth between two men. Every time the man behind him pushes deeper, he’s shoved forward, taking the other man further into his mouth before they both withdraw. He is then pushed backward, and the process is repeated again. Every slap of flesh is punctuated by a pained grunt.

“Do you make these sounds for John?” the voice comes from off-camera. “Does he share you? Has he ever heard you moaning around another man’s cock?”

“Oh god,” murmurs Lestrade as the person holding the camera steps back to fit the man behind Sherlock fully into view.

The man digs his fingers into Sherlock’s hips and rams into him several times over, leaving Sherlock choking on the other cock, eyes overflowing.

With a grunt, the man comes, collapsing on Sherlock and driving him forward so unstoppably that the three of them topple over.

Sherlock pushes himself up as the man rolls off him, and makes a hopeless scramble to get away. One of the men who had been holding him down takes the opportunity to get in behind him. The person holding the camera takes a moment to focus on the come and blood leaking out of him before he is, once more, impaled.

The noise Sherlock makes at that almost does cause John to drop the phone.

“While your mouth is free, is there anything you’d like to say to him?”

Sherlock looks up, and his eyes widen noticeably.

“Twenty-One To My Le-”

The message cuts off.

John is left staring at his phone, the screen asking if he wants to save or delete the message.

Lestrade quietly takes the phone from his hand, presses save, and forwards the message to himself.

“I’ll run this though facial analysis. See if we can get any identification.”

Instead of handing the phone back, he places it on the desk. “Did you catch what he said at the end?”

John slips back into life. “Twenty-one two mile-something. It’s an address.”

“Is it familiar? Do you know the rest?”

“No.” John has always been at his best during emergencies, but that’s only true as long as there’s something for him to do to help.

“I’ll send this on to forensics. I’ll be right back, and I’ll need you to stay here, okay?” Lestrade uses the firm, calming tone emergency workers are trained in. “Don’t do anything with the phone, but keep an eye on it in case it rings, alright?”

“Don’t waste time,” John snaps.

Lestrade nods, and leaves more quickly than John’s ever seen him move.

John sits in front of the computer – which is, thank god, already logged in – and runs a search for ‘21 two-mile’. 

The search returns millions of results that don’t help in the least. 

‘212 mile’, ‘21 tomb’, ‘21 tomb I’, and ‘21 to my’ are no better. 

He thinks back to the crime scene. Sherlock had seen something there that had led him to wherever he is now. That’s no help. Sherlock had run off, without the slightest hint, and John knows he’ll never be able to retrace all the connections Sherlock’s mind made.

From what Sherlock said as he ran off, it’s most likely that he’s run into the gang that orchestrated the murder they’d been called to investigate. How he could have found them or where they are – 21 something, if he’s even right that it’s an address, and, oh god, if he’s wrong about that it could slow the search down.

He sits in front of the computer, useless, while Sherlock is being abused and he can’t stop it.

The man had known they were in a relationship, or had assumed, and they’d had Sherlock’s phone.

John jumps up, his exclamation of “Idiot!” a self-admonishment for how long it has taken him to think of it.

“The GPS!” he yells, sticking his head out of Lestrade’s office. “We can trace his phone’s GPS!”

* * *

When Sherlock lunges toward the phone, the man flicks recording off before he can complete his message.

“We’re still sending it,” the man says, as Sherlock is pulled back on to hardened flesh. “Quick thinking though.”

Sherlock opens his mouth in a snarl, but before he can form a word his head is grabbed and shoved down on another cock. The man is close; Sherlock can already identify the new taste of his pre-come. He gags, softly, and the man behind him moans.

“God yes. He was made for this.”

He digs his nails into the small of Sherlock’s back, causing him to tighten further.

The man in his mouth pulls out, rubbing his erection along Sherlock’s cheek and jaw line. 

Sherlock tries to focus on the pain in his knees as they’re rubbed raw on the pavement. The man in front of him keeps shoving in, and pulling out to rub against him, then shoving in again. The man behind him is constantly adjusting his angle, spreading Sherlock’s legs farther apart and drawing them together again by turns.

The man in front of him ejaculates while running his cock below Sherlock’s left eyebrow. His rapid blinking can’t prevent the fluid dripping into his eye.

He sobs, shamelessly, and the man with his phone steps forward again.

“I think,” he says, having already divested himself of his lower clothes, “you should always have your mouth full.”

He presses the head of his erection to Sherlock’s pursed lips. “You’re bearable this way.” He pushes forward, and Sherlock can’t stop him, not with his attention consumed by the fire in his eye and the movement in his arse.

“So I thought we should make another little video for your friend John, to remind him of why he keeps you around.”

The man holds the phone to show his perspective as he slides his cock in and out of Sherlock’s mouth, out of time to the bobbing necessitated by the movement of the cock in Sherlock’s arse.

* * *

The phone rings again, and everyone who can hear dashes to see what’s happened now. 

John wants to force them back. Sherlock shouldn’t be seen like this. Not by anyone, but especially not by these people, most of whom actively dislike him.

John hopes that the crowd has formed due to a shared desire to help – these are good officers, and good people – but he can’t help fearing that some idiot will say something about being taken down a peg, or karma, and he knows that he would be entirely responsible for what he would do to them.

He doesn’t want them to see Sherlock like this, but if he doesn’t let them, they can’t help.

He presses play.

The camera phone is held by a man with his cock in Sherlock’s mouth. 

John is watching his boyfriend being raped from the viewpoint of the rapist.

His stomach rolls.

“Wrap your lips around it and suck,” the man says.

Sherlock stares up at him, both eyes streaming and one red, with come dripping down his face.

He tries to say something, but the words are garbled beyond recognition.

“Oh,” the man moans. “You use your tongue like that for him then? I can see why he likes it.”

Sherlock is forced forward by a particularly hard thrust at his rear. He freezes, nose crushed to the man’s pubes, then literally coughs the cock out of his mouth as he pulls back.

“I’m not opposed to deepthroating,” the man says, forcing his way back in, “but if you don’t suck on me, I’ll break your fingers.”

Another man speaks. “I bet John likes those, doesn’t he? He makes you fuck yourself on them.”

Sherlock sucks, viciously.

The man holding the phone wobbles, “Yeah, that’s why he keeps you around. Don’t think otherwise. He’s going to leave you, yeah, he’s watching this right now. He’s hard ‘cause he’s remembering all the times you’ve been on your knees, but when you get home he’s going to kick you out. He’s seeing how much of a slut you are. I gave you the smallest excuse, and here you are, sucking me like it’s all you want in the world. Getting all of us off like it’s your goddamn job. He won’t stay with you. No one will.”

The man’s tone changes, less abusive, more conversational, he says, “Hey John, wherever you are, we just thought we’d call to say thanks for training this little slut up for us. We’d let him say goodbye, but we’re still dealing with the misbehaviour issues when we let him talk. Next time you get a boyfriend, you should work on beating that out of him first. It’s a serious problem.”

The focus zooms in on Sherlock’s face, and John finds the look of rage terrifying, even though he knows it’s not directed at him. He hopes that he is the only one to see the barely suppressed humiliation and pain in Sherlock’s eyes. The message ends.

* * *

No-one makes a sound. 

“I don’t think anything from that will help us,” someone says after several long seconds. “I’ll check if any matches have come through for the first video.”

The crowd disperses.

John saves the message, as much as he hates it, and sends it on. He can’t bear to watch it again, but if he destroys it and it contains the slightest bit of evidence...

He refuses to think about what he’s just seen. The men are terrible liars, and Sherlock is too intelligent to believe them. That’s the end of it.

Lestrade keeps him from thinking further by telling him that the GPS in Sherlock’s phone has been disabled. He thinks he should have expected that.

John’s ideas clearly aren’t helping, so he stops trying to think, and takes what little action he can.

He calls Mycroft.

* * *

Mycroft has all the information sent from and to Sherlock’s phone monitored. He does not consider this at all inappropriate. It is a more than reasonable level of surveillance placed on individuals suspected of having ties to terrorists, and Sherlock tends to come into contact with quite a few mad criminals and bombers. He would be remiss if he didn’t track his brother’s activities.

The surveillance consists of automated scanning of all text messages for words like “bomb” and “assassination” and even verbal calls are put through a word identification filter.

Less care is taken with video-messages. Unless there’s a human present to watch them, they’re not so easy for the monitoring equipment to interpret. Sherlock and his activities hardly qualify as threatening enough to require a human constantly monitoring his communications.

So, despite what some would call paranoid overprotectiveness, he is unprepared for John’s call. He frowns as he hits the talk button, trusting that John would not phone him unless something required his urgent attention.

The news that his brother is being assaulted, seriously, and no one knows how to stop it pours through him. He does not doubt it for a second; John would not lie about this, and the horror in his tone is obvious. 

He does not have time for horror of his own, so he puts his emotions, and his work, aside, and tells John to send over the messages, both of them, no matter how horrible they are. The attackers will have made mistakes, and he will find them. He will put an end to this, efficiently.

* * *

The man with his phone sends the message, then hands it off to the first man who’d assaulted him – already half hard again, and god, no, he can’t take this if there are going to be second rounds – then pulls out and sits, legs spread, in front of him.

“Help me get him down for this,” he says, and two other men grab Sherlock by the arms and pull them out from under him. He goes down hard, and if not for the man’s thigh between his face and the pavement, he’d probably smash open the skin along his jaw.

They drop his arms, so he rests his elbows and forearms on the ground where they’re quickly recaptured and held down.

The man behind him angles Sherlock’s legs slightly farther apart again, and continues pounding into him.

“Keep sucking, slag,” the man in front of him orders as he pulls Sherlock’s hair, forcing his mouth back onto his cock. The man keeps talking until he dissolves into a mantra of “slut, yes,” and hooks his legs over Sherlock’s shoulders. He presses his heels into Sherlock’s back, forcing him down just slightly out of time with the thrusts of the man in Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock hates it. He hates everything. He hates the sound of them, and the smell of all these men. There’s a pervasive stench of sex and testosterone now, and he thinks it may be worse than the vomit. 

He hates the contortion of his body, and the pavement under his knees, probably bloody by now, but he’s gone too numb there to tell.

He hates that these men can do this to him, can defeat and humiliate him so thoroughly, while being so incompetent, so much stupider than he is.

He hates that they’ve insisted on bringing John into this, not just as a taunt, but as someone involved directly through the videos. He hates that he doesn’t know what John’s doing right now, if he’s even found the messages yet. He hates that the words recorded and sent to John made his stomach clench in a way that even the things they were actually doing to him hadn’t, and he hates that some part of him thinks so little of John that he’d fear they’re right.

He hates his inability to save himself, and his heart rate, and that every breath smells like sweat and semen because _his_ breath smells like sweat and semen. He hates, _he hates_ , that every time his back is pushed just so, and his hips are pulled just so, it adds to the growing tightness inside him and blood flowing, ever more strongly, to the last place he wants it.

* * *

Mycroft has determined how far Sherlock could have possibly gone if he’d jumped in a cab as soon as he’d left the crime scene and rode away right up until the minute the final message was received. He has done this for every direction, and within this area, he has searched for any address containing 21 and anything that sounds similar to ‘my le’. The area is large, and most of what he needs to see is not covered by CCTV. He has sent people out to check the unviewable areas, but there is a lot of ground to cover.

He is not entirely certain that what Sherlock said is an address. It is just as likely to be a time and a place, an event, a hint to some clue that Sherlock thinks John will be able to unravel. A lead to the position of the crucial piece of evidence at the crime scene that led him on whatever mad chase he’s been caught on.

He can’t forget his brother’s words, but he can’t focus on them either.

The first message shows pavement and a brick wall. His brother might be able to look at the mortar between the bricks and deduce the area and date of construction. He can’t. He has a different skill set. Useless. If it were a building near the residence of almost any notable figure in local government, he’d recognise it. He doesn’t, and that doesn’t help a bit.

He can’t hope for another video to be sent. He shouldn’t, especially since he could find nothing useful in the second, but he needs more information.

He hates the men who are doing this, and when he finds them – and he will find all of them – they will be lucky if he only makes them disappear.

He hates himself, and John, and the police, because in spite of everything, they are all powerless to stop this. Most furiously, he hates his brother, and he hopes that he can save him.

* * *

The man forces his heels down on Sherlock’s spine so hard that it cracks. Sherlock can feel a phantom popping in the back of his neck, but if there is any damage, it doesn’t feel serious. The come that fills his mouth soon distracts him from any worry of spinal injury.

He dry heaves against the man’s softening length, which he won’t pull out. The man keeps Sherlock’s head down, and when Sherlock stops gagging, the man runs a hand through his hair.

“Now,” he says, holding Sherlock’s head steady against the increasingly harsh rhythm established by the man in his arse, “as I’m sure you’ve noticed, seeing as you’re a brilliant detective, I’m covered in drool and come. This is a crime, and I know who’s responsible.” He thrusts up, forcing Sherlock’s mouth wider. “So, for your community service, you’re going to lick me clean.”

“Come on,” another man whines. “You just had him. Some of us haven’t gone yet.”

“It won’t take long, unless he wants it to. If you can’t last,” the man taunts, “that’s not my fault.” 

Sherlock hopes, for a moment, that they’ll start to fight. With enough of a distraction, he may be able to get away.

There is no fight. The man just waves his hand and looks irritated. 

“Go on,” he says, and watches intently as Sherlock tries to lick his own excess saliva off the shrinking cock.

It’s stupid. Pointless and humiliating. Designed to humiliate. But the longer he’s in this position, the longer he has for his half-hardness to recede. No one has mentioned it yet, but surely, if he moves too much, someone will see. It can only make things worse. It already has.

The physical sensations are not pleasant. The psychological experience is even less so. He knows, intellectually, that it’s a normal physiological response to physical stimulation. But he’s never been normal, and this is the worst time, ever, to start. 

The man behind him shudders, stills, then pulls out, spent. Sherlock can feel a thin trail of liquid trickling out of him and down.

The man who’d earlier declared himself next jostles others aside to get behind Sherlock. He pushes his way in. Sherlock can’t help wincing, but he doesn’t try to resist. It’s when the man’s hands curve around his hips, and reach to his front, that he freezes.

The man in front of him tugs on his hair, “You’re not done yet,” but then he notices Sherlock’s sudden increased discomfort.

“Oh my god!” gasps the man behind him, as his hand circles Sherlock’s dick. “Everyone, look! Look at this! He likes it! The twisted little shit is actually getting off!”

“No,” Sherlock moans, stupidly he thinks, though it doesn’t actually make anything worse.

The man in front of him grins. “Push him up. Let’s see this!”

The hands holding his arms down reach across his chest and force him up, pressing him flush against the man who pounds up into him.

“Give back the phone,” the man he’s just sucked off says. “We need to capture this!”

“Fuck,” he crows. “I know he wasn’t like this before I started talking to him. The slut likes abuse.”

“Normally,” the statement comes from one of the men holding Sherlock up, “I’d say we should stop. But if he’s going to get us all off, like a good little slag, then I guess we can return the favour.”

The man inside him strokes Sherlock’s prick in time to his thrusts. It’s not pleasurable, it’s not. It’s horrifying. But blood flow increases. Another pair of hands joins in, fingers of one hand circling the head of his cock, the other grasping at his testicles.

“Fucking cock whore,” the phone is back in the man’s hand, “he does like it.”

He’s not recording yet. Sherlock is fully hard, and it hurts. He hurts all over, and the relentless pounding into him – it’s at a ridiculous speed – is only aggravating the heat of his damaged flesh. There has been tearing, too much liquid is running down his leg for there not to be blood. And is it too much. It is entirely too much. He’s not even holding himself up anymore. He wouldn’t be able to.

The sounds and the touches are becoming indistinguishable and blurring into the hideousness of the smell. 

He grasps onto the focus of the feeling of blood and semen running down his leg. Things shift back into focus. He’s not going to let his body betray him like that. God knows what they’d do to him if he were to stop responding. He’s not so sure he’s going to get out of this alive any more, and he needs to keep his mind, he needs to keep his wits about him.

* * *

John receives the message and, because calls are now being monitored by a human, Mycroft does too.

What John sees is his boyfriend, being molested from every direction, and starting to unravel. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter and his head starts to loll to the side as he limply lets the men surrounding him do what they want to his body. John sees someone who doesn’t care what’s happening to him anymore, someone who’s given up not because he knows that he can’t win the battle, but because he’s decided the war isn’t worth fighting. It’s an apathy that doesn’t belong on Sherlock, and John finds it horrifying. 

Mycroft sees his brother, eyelids fluttering, head lolling, falling out of consciousness precisely when he can’t afford to. 

His heart pumps as he sees his brother tense, then straighten, and open his eyes, lucid. 

Sherlock winces visibly when he sees that his phone is recording. Mycroft and John, watching separately, find the same relief at the response for the same reasons.

Sherlock’s body bounces to the rhythm of the man inside him. His gaze grows more distant as the fingers curling around the head of his cock speed up in their rhythm. He starts gasping for breath, but the noise is faint compared to all the other sounds. It’s almost too soft to be heard over the abuse the man holding the phone is hurling at him. 

“He gets hard when you call him a slag, but I guess you knew that, didn’t you John. You could have told us, sent us a text or something. I guess you don’t care about him any more, understandable, seeing as he is just our cumdump now, but you could have spared us some consideration.”

“Hey, slut, fuckboy.” When this doesn’t get the desired response, he adds, “We’ve got a question about John.”

At John’s name, Sherlock refocusses on the phone.

“We want to know whether he’s considerate. Is John nice? Does he know what you like? Does he stroke you this hard? Does he make you come?”

Sherlock gives a half-hearted snarl.

“Hit him,” the man says.

Sherlock is punched, not quite hard enough to break anything, in the chest. He lets out a grunt, as much surprise as pain, and the man behind him falters in his rhythm.

“Oh god, hit him again.”

There’s another fist, to his side this time, immediately followed by a slap just above his opposite hip.

The man comes inside him, pulling out with a drip.

“He tightens up when you do that. It’s amazing.”

“I bet,” comes another voice from off camera, from a man the viewers have heard speak before, but still haven’t seen, “John isn’t considerate. Look at him, he’s acting like this is the first time anyone’s even touched him. This must be the best he’s ever had. I bet John is shit in bed, probably doesn’t even know what his boyfriend looks like when he comes.”

“We’ll have to show him then,” another man says. “Turn him over. I want him on his back.”

The men push Sherlock on to his side and roll him over. The man who’d told them to do so kneels at his rear, grabs Sherlock’s hips and uses them to pull Sherlock onto him, entering his arse without resistance after the pull over the pavement has scraped a layer of skin off of Sherlock’s back and shoulders. 

Sherlock’s weight is forced onto his shoulders and the back of his neck. The man inside him finds an angle that makes Sherlock’s eyes widen further and his mouth drop open with repeated hiccoughing gasps. 

The men laugh, and then there are two hands running along Sherlock’s erection.

“Dare you,” says a man off camera, “to make it land in his mouth when he shoots off.”

The man in his arse grunts, and pulls up so that Sherlock is curled even closer to his own face.

The impending orgasm is obvious. Several of the officers watching with John look away from the screen. 

Technically, the video is useful. They’ve been able to see more of the alley, and they don’t know where he is yet, but this has to help. They just don’t need to watch this particular part of it. 

The “no” that comes out of the phone is soft and broken. Less than a second later John sees the hands direct Sherlock’s cock and the liquid land on his face, in his mouth. 

Sherlock coughs, and the man driving into him doesn’t stop. Neither do the hands on him. The recording continues for a gratuitously long time.

“See John,” the man holding the camera says slowly, “wasn’t that pretty? I almost want to keep him, now that we’ve trained him not to talk so much. Nice trick, wasn’t it? I asked him if you were nice, if you made him come, and he didn’t answer until we fucked it out of him. Watch and learn.” 

“He’s still hard,” one of the men who hasn’t taken his hand off Sherlock’s dick says.

“He just came. Give him a moment, will you?”

“No. I thought he was but look, not going limp at all. He’s as hard as he was.”

He is; there’s video evidence.

“Ah shit. That is so weird.”

Some of the men lean toward Sherlock to get a better view. There is audible jostling off camera.

“Think we can make him come again? That’s what this means, right?”

“He loves this. He is a freak and he loves this.”

“It is freaky, but who gets hard when they’re being gang-banged in a back alley? A freak.” The speaker leans over Sherlock, and enunciates clearly, “You weren’t supposed to enjoy this. It was meant to be an unpleasant experience, freak.”

Several of the men start repeating the word, “freak,” like the chant of a name at a sporting match, in time to the tugging of his persistent erection and the thrusts of the man inside him.

After about six seconds of this, the message ends.

At John’s side, Sergeant Donovan moves very quickly out of the room. She won’t stay gone long. When she returns, her face will be freshly washed and her determination to do whatever it takes to aid in the search will be consuming her.

The moment the message ends, Mycroft sets off to see the crime scene that led Sherlock to this for himself.

* * *

This isn’t the first time Sherlock’s stayed hard after he’s come. It has happened, sometimes, rarely, as a result of masturbation. It’s uncommon, but not unnatural. It’s never been a problem. If he avoids stimulation, or brings himself off again, the erection will go away on its own.

Sherlock’s shoulders are being rubbed raw against the pavement. His back aches, and he can see blood on his knees. He’s just come in his own mouth, and John has seen it, or is going to see it, and when he does he’ll show it to the police, because he’s still naïve enough to think they’ll be able to help. 

Everyone is going to see, and everyone will know. After this, how is he supposed to work at a crime scene if he knows that everyone but the corpse has seen him naked, helpless, coming on his own, already semen-spotted face? And staying hard. 

He’d been afraid that they’d kill him if he didn’t stay lucid enough to protect himself, but it might be a kindness. 

They haven’t stopped tugging on him, but the chant of “Freak” is dying down.

There’s another cock hovering over his face now, and he can’t possibly get it in his mouth, not while he’s contorted like this, but he’s told to lick it, and he does – because why bother resisting this – sliding his tongue up along a vein. His movement is choppy, dictated by the press of flesh in his arse that keeps nudging him forward. He almost bites his own tongue when the man, without any warning or change in pace, squeezes his hips harshly, pulls out, spent, and drops him to the pavement. There is a spike of pain in his lower back.

He doesn’t resist when they move him, placing him back on his elbows and knees. They’re still holding him in place, but now it’s more so that he won’t topple over than it is so that he won’t escape. The man he’s been licking uses Sherlock’s mouth, apparently too far gone to notice that Sherlock is ignoring what the man tells him to do with his tongue.

The head of another cock presses against him. He relaxes as much as he can. He’s certain that if there weren’t still hands moving along his own shaft, fingers circling his own head, he’d be soft by now.

The man presses in, and it’s easier than it was.

Then he hears his phone ring.

That means John’s seen the messages, certainly. That means he might be on the way. That means others have seen the messages, likely. That means –

“Do you want me to read it?” the man with the phone asks. Sherlock can’t answer, but the men around him do.

“It’s sweet,” the man says, “It’s from your boyfriend. He must like you more than we thought. It’s just two lines.” He clears his throat. “'Stop hurting him. We’ll pay you to let him go.'”

“Isn’t that nice? He still cares about you, the stupid shit. Or maybe he just likes that you can keep it up for so long. Either way, everyone, how much do you think this slag’s worth?”

“We’re not hurting him,” one of the men says, squeezing Sherlock’s cock. “He likes it.”

“You know,” the man with the phone says, “I think you’re right. And I don’t think they’d pay much for him now. He’s all dirty.”

As if to prove their point, the man in Sherlock’s mouth pulls out and comes on his hair.

“He’s getting loose too,” the man in his arse says. “If we sell him now they’ll want a refund.”

“Just take the money,” Sherlock says, throat raw, “and let me go. They’re not going to let me come after you, so you can consider yourselves successful,” he coughs, “but you’re not going to get away with this. Anything more you do to me will only make it worse for you when you’re found.”

“That is an intriguing proposal,” says the man who’d been the first to assault him, “but I think you’re bluffing. We are going to get away with this. I’m not a fancy detective, but even I can see that your friend has no idea where you are or what to do. He’s offering ransom. I think we can have some fun with you yet.”

“You said he’s loose, yeah?” one of the men says. “Think we could fit two in him?”

“I don’t know.” The man inside him pauses, and runs a finger along Sherlock’s anus. Sherlock clenches as tight as he can.

“Oh, but I think he likes that idea,” the man laughs.

“You can’t. You, you are in so much trouble already. They will find you. Don’t make this worse.”

“He’s clamming up. Feels pretty good now.”

“Make him come again; He’ll loosen up. He wants two, he just doesn’t know it.”

“I know what I want. I want-” someone gags him with his own scarf. The taste of the filth on it assaults him. It’s been stood on, and Sherlock suspects someone’s used it to clean theirself off.

“Lift him up again,” the first man says, and Sherlock is pushed up on his knees again. His arms and hands are held firmly, this time because they need to be. The thrusts of the man inside him are more sedate, and Sherlock has better control of himself.

The man pushes the others away from Sherlock’s dick, and wraps his hands around him.

“I know I’ve been kind of harsh with you,” he says, “but I’m actually really nice. I know things are terribly confusing for you right now, so I’m going to give you a chance to show me what you really want.” He runs his thumb along the underside of Sherlock’s prick, and looks over for a moment to the man holding the phone. “You’re going to want to record this.”

The man smiles at the phone. “Hey John, we got your message,” he says quickly, “We’re pretty sure we’re not going to take your offer, but we thought we’d let your boyfriend have the final say. You gave us two sentences, so we’re going to give him two minutes to decide. If he comes for us before then, he wants to stay with us. If he holds out for you, we’ll tell you where he is and leave him here for you to collect.”

The man looks back to Sherlock. “And just so you know,” he adds, “we’ve already told him what we’re going to do next if he decides to stay. So,” he delivers a stinging slap to Sherlock’s hip, “two minutes starting... now.”

The man in Sherlock’s arse speeds up, but only slightly. It’s not as painful as it was before, but it’s not pleasurable enough to push him anywhere close to orgasm.

The man in front of him takes his balls in hand and massages them, and that’s not going to break him either. 

He is good with his hands though. He’s traced his fingers all over the head, and they’re moving down the shaft, which, as much as he doesn’t want to think so, does feel pleasant. 

And then comes a hot puff of air, and that’s new.

He jumps slightly when the tongue touches him, and he knows that that hasn’t been mistaken for anything other than the arousal response it is.

The mouth engulfs him; one hand covers what it can’t take, and the other continues to work on his balls.

He doesn’t want to like the feeling. His body should be responding to the fact that a vulnerable organ is suddenly surrounded by the sharp teeth of someone he can’t trust, not to the warmth and the wetness and the tongue tracing just along- 

And he’s not going to last. It’s just two minutes, but he’s already lost track of time. This is nothing he’s ever felt before and he can’t help but cry into his scarf because his body’s going to betray him, it’s going to, and he can’t stop it.

His mind has turned traitor too, focussing completely on every new sensation. The suction, and the small movements, and the pressure of the tongue. And he’s not ready for it. And it’s too much for him to take. And he’s going to die from it. And he doesn’t care. And he comes.

He wails into the scarf. He feels the tears making their way down his cheeks, and he doesn’t even know when he started crying. He screams, and the scarf is covered by someone else’s hand. They tell him to shut up, so he cries out again.

“It looks like he likes us better John,” the man with his phone is saying. “Sorry. We’re going to ruin him.”

They’re shaking him, and they’re pulling him off of the cock of the man behind him, who comes on his arse, and the man whose mouth he’s just come into is lying down in front of him, telling the man with the phone to get a good angle for this.

They’re pulling him up and over, and spreading him, and pushing him down on the man’s cock. He’s going limp now, finally, and the man is hard, and the other man, coming up behind him is hard, and he won’t be able to take them. 

The man inside him rocks into him, and the other man presses against where they’re joined. 

The man with the phone holds it obscenely close.

The man inside him pulls almost all the way out, and they stick their fingers in him, hook them, and pull. 

The pain is intense. He can feel himself tearing. The men hold themselves together, and push up into him, and he tears further.

He doesn’t know any more if he’s been screaming. His back is tight, and he feels on fire, and his mouth is still being held closed over the scarf.

The men are pounding into him arrhythmically, and he’s being held down and forward, and his phone is capturing all of it.

* * *

Mycroft wants to be furious at John for sending the message. He can’t be. Expending energy on that anger would be pointless, and he’d almost done the same thing himself. Though he’d like to believe that his would have been more convincingly worded.

John could not have known, and should not be expected to have known, that his message would be responded to in such a way. If events had unfolded slightly differently, then John’s actions would have prevented Sherlock’s further suffering.

If John hadn’t sent that message, and Mycroft had sent his own, perhaps Sherlock would be safe by now. Or perhaps the messages didn’t affect anything.

If Mycroft has sent a message, and had received that response, thinking it due to his own actions, he would very likely find himself unable to function further, and would be useless in the further search for his brother. More useless.

So he doesn’t hate John, who he’s sure is doing enough of that for everyone. He expends a great deal of effort to avoid feeling anything after watching the newest video.

He examines the crime scene, though it has already been cleared by Scotland Yard, and he examines the evidence that the Yard has sent him along with the pictures of the scene. It tells him little. It tells him of the people who were murdered – too much about them; they don’t matter. It tells him of the man sent to kill them – who he will be able to track down, and he’s already made moves to find, but can never find soon enough. It tells him about the group that ordered the assassination – and it will be so very easy to hunt them down once any of them make a move, but he needs to know where they are right now.

It fails to tell him where his brother is, and it fails to tell him how to find him.

* * *

Lestrade can’t bring himself to blame John when he finds that John’s sent a message to the men who have Sherlock. It has a better chance of saving Sherlock than anything he’s done.

When the reply comes, he still can’t bring himself to blame anyone but the men who sent it.

John is horrified, John is in shock, and John blames himself.

Lestrade knows that John would only be more horrified if Lestrade were to stop working toward finding Sherlock for one second to waste his time with words of comfort. So instead he gives John a map and asks him to mark off areas where someone could scream in an alleyway and not attract public attention.

* * *

The man with his phone has sent the message to John, and Sherlock has gone strangely numb. He can feel his body rocking, and it hurts, but he’s distanced from it. 

When the scarf is removed and another cock is thrust into his mouth he just accepts it. When one of the men in his arse – the one behind him, pushing him forward – comes, he takes his replacement with little more than a whimper.

When the man under him grows more violent, ramming up and adding more bruises to his hips with his grip, Sherlock doesn’t protest.

It’s not until the come hits the back of his throat and the man in his mouth is replaced by another that he reacts.

At the taste of this man’s cock he retches violently and throws his head away from it. He had known that some of the men were coming back for second rounds, but the taste of this man’s skin is unfamiliar. He is certain that this man has been inside him before, and he is just as certain that he now knows what the inside of his own arse tastes like.

It is knowledge he really could have done without.

Before he can protest, the cock is forced back into his mouth.

He retches again and gags around it, trying to keep his tongue down. The coughing fit this sends him into wracks through him.

The man underneath holds Sherlock’s hips still and comes. He doesn’t pull out.

The man behind Sherlock keeps thrusting.

Sherlock finally twists his head away and uses the opportunity to cough and retch freely, spitting to clear the taste from his mouth. 

The men he spits on do not appreciate it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“It tastes –” his mouth twists with disgust as they try to force his head back on it.

“It’s a fucking cock. It’s not meant to taste good.”

“No, it’s-” Sherlock twists away again. He doesn’t want to say it aloud. “He’s been in– It’s not clean.”

“Good,” says one of the men, and tries to hold Sherlock’s head still as the thrusts of the man behind Sherlock push the limp length of the man beneath him out. 

“Nobody’s going to be kissing you,” laughs the limp man as he starts to wriggle out from underneath Sherlock. No one tries to take his place, but several more hands help hold Sherlock’s head still.

He’s forced to take the length. The man rams repeatedly against the back of his throat, making Sherlock gag from the movement as much as the taste, which he never gets used to.

It takes forever, and when the man does come, pressed against the back of his tongue, he stays there, softening in Sherlock’s mouth.

And then there’s more. The sudden influx of liquid makes Sherlock gag again. He chokes on it, swallows some while the rest of it spills out of his mouth, down his chin and chest, and on to the pavement below.

The men laugh at him as he chokes and spits, and the man still in his arse comes and pulls out.

He’s pushed over, falling beside the puddle left on the pavement. His arms are held in front of him, and one of the men clasps Sherlock’s hands together then ties his scarf around them so that he can’t move them. He draws the scarf over his wrists, then binds them with a belt. 

Several of the men lift him up. He kicks out, but it does him no good. 

They carry him over to the skip, wrap a belt around each ankle, then catch the belts at the top corners of the front end of the skip and tie them down. This leaves him with his legs spread, arse displayed, and back arched painfully as his chest presses into the pavement. 

He pulls his hands up under his chin. His upper back is in something close to agony, but the position affords him the ability to look up at his captors. 

“Does anyone have a biro?” one of them, the one who’d been jittery at first, asks.

Another man hands him a felt-tip.

The man walks up to Sherlock and runs a hand along the inside of his splayed thigh.

Sherlock attends to the pressure of the pen and the quickly drying ink against his skin.

PUBLIC ARSE, he can feel the man write, 50p per use

The man steps back, and looks to his companions for their opinions.

“I’ve only got fifty on me,” one man says, “and I’ve already gone twice.”

Sherlock tries to speak, but his position and the pressure on his throat leave him unable to form anything recognisable as words. Anything he could say would only make it worse in any case.

“Yeah,” another adds, “and I’m not sure I’d pay that much anymore. He’s all used up now. Look at him.”

The man with the felt-tip nods, crosses out 50p and writes 20p below it.

One of the men starts passing something around, a shoe; Sherlock recognises it as his own. Every man drops in at least one coin. 

Once it’s made its way around, the man with the marker takes it. He tries to put the toe in Sherlock’s mouth. He can’t open his jaw that far, so the man contents himself with leaning it against Sherlock’s face.

One of the men steps forward, drops yet another coin in the shoe, balances against the skip, and pushes roughly into Sherlock.

His every thrust rocks the skip, disturbing the stinking air in it. Sherlock tries to gag, but it catches in his throat. He marvels that he can find the scent so disgusting so soon after what he’s just had in his mouth, but with every breath he can taste the cloying, organic rot. He wonders again as the man pounds into him, whether he’s going to survive. Sherlock can barely stand to breathe by the time the man comes inside him and steps back.

The next man grabs at Sherlock’s hips and lifts him up so his jaw is pulled off of his hands and drags along the pavement.

His thrusts are rough and quick, and every one leaves a sharp twinge in Sherlock’s back. The skip is not rocked quite as badly, so the stench dissipates, but he’s closer to the source. Every breath is a challenge with his neck pressed against the pavement and the blood rushing to his head. The moment the man finishes, Sherlock drags himself forward so his chest can take more of his weight.

The man after holds Sherlock open with his fingers and fits several in with his cock, murmuring about how stretched and used and ruined he is. Sherlock tries not to listen, but he can’t avoid hearing the words over the slap of flesh, and he can’t resist the twist of disgust and self-loathing in his stomach.

The man finishes in him and pulls away. Sherlock pulls his chin back on to his hands as the man who’d written on him drops a coin in the shoe.

He enters Sherlock forcefully, but moves slowly once inside him. He continues his rocking motion after he’s come, and Sherlock feels the penis softening as it moves inside him. He then feels it filling him more. 

Sherlock can only grunt in disgust as the man empties his bladder inside him. He pulls out, dripping, and shakes it off over Sherlock’s back.

“I knew you drank too much,” one of the men watching says.

“We all did,” another adds, coming up and holding his penis against Sherlock’s hole. He drops a coin in the shoe, then uses his fingers to push the head of his flaccid penis inside. He groans with release.

Sherlock tenses, and he is overflowing, the warm liquid pouring over his back. The man does not pull out until he’s finished.

The men who come after him don’t bother filling his arse. They stand over him, dousing him with warm streams and pelting him with gobs of spit and semen.

When the last of the men backs off, Sherlock hears the man with his phone again.

“Are we done here?”

“Not quite yet,” the man who’d written on him says. “Where’s his other shoe?”

They find it thrown aside by the alley wall. The man picks it up, brushes it off, then slowly, ignoring Sherlock’s pained moan, presses it, toe first, into Sherlock’s arse. Even stretched as he is, Sherlock can’t take much of it, and the man is forced to leave most of the shoe leaning against the skip.

“There” he says. “Now it won’t leak out.”

“Lovely,” says the man, and raises Sherlock’s phone, snapping a picture of him tied to the skip, one shoe in his arse and the other not quite obscuring his face.

“I’ll just send this, and we’ll be off.” He smiles at Sherlock. “Or maybe we should wander off before I send it. That might give you enough time to get that shoe filled. John will be angry at you for choosing us over him, but maybe if you show him you can earn enough he’ll take you back.” The man frowns. “Probably not though.” 

He types out a quick message and sends it off with the picture.

* * *

John’s dread peaks as he hears the sound of his phone. Even so, he picks it up before anyone else can get to it. 

It’s just a picture this time, and a text, saying 'He hopes you find him before anyone else does'. 

The picture is from far enough away, and his screen is small enough, that he can’t be completely certain of what the writing on Sherlock’s thigh says. Even so, his situation is clear and he looks terrible.

John sends the picture on. It reveals more of the area than they’ve yet seen from all of the videos combined.

* * *

They leave Sherlock tied in the alley, taking with them his clothes and his phone. 

He tries to push the shoe out. The sole of it sticks against the skip, but with enough squirming – and he can feel more tearing as he moves, and it burns – he works that to his advantage. It tumbles down his back, accompanied by more liquid, and slams into the back of his head before landing, with a wet plop, on the pavement.

He doesn’t think he’s crying, but his face is so wet, and his eyes and throat are so sore, that he may not be able to tell if he were.

* * *

Anderson buys a chocolate bar from the vending machine to take to Sally. She comes to talk to him sometimes when he has to work long hours, so it’s only fair to return the favour. 

He’s been avoiding this case since he heard about it. The forensic help they need isn’t his specialty; someone else is taking care of it. If he’s honest with himself, his reluctance to get involved stems mostly from the fact that he likes thinking of Sherlock Holmes as the prick that bursts onto his crime scenes and proceeds to destroy and contaminate important evidence with no regard for the considerations and social niceties that keep people decent. The way he’s heard people on this case are seeing him would change that irrevocably. He can’t be of any particular help in the search for Holmes, and he suspects Holmes wouldn’t want him to see him like that.

So he buys a chocolate bar, which he knows Sally will love but complain about, and a can of juice that she’ll probably hate but thank him for, and he goes to check up on her.

Sally doesn’t look up when he comes over to her desk. He looks at her monitor to see that she’s engrossed in recording details from a picture of a skip in an alley with the middle blurred into an unidentifiable, flesh-toned mass.

Oh.

“I know that skip,” he tells her. “I was sick behind it last Saturday. I recognise the graffiti.”

“Where is it?” She demands, the intense entirety of her attention turned to him.

“Out back of a pub. I think it’s named after a game.” He pauses for a second to remember, then starts with surety, “Twenty-One To My Left. I can give you the address.”

Sally yells for Lestrade.

* * *

The ambulance, called from the station, gets to Sherlock before anyone else can find him. Sherlock is glad of that.

John is not with it. Sherlock is not certain what he thinks about that, but he suspects he is very likely glad of it as well.


End file.
